


Keep Calm and Try to Carry On

by MewlingQuim12



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: After The Six Thatchers, Alternative to The Lying Detective, Kind of Depressing, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-15 12:42:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9235691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MewlingQuim12/pseuds/MewlingQuim12
Summary: It's been thirteen years since Sherlock has last seen John. John has been raising Rosie by himself on the edge of London, and is trying to run from his past, but his mind won't let him forget.





	1. Rosie's Inquiries

John sighed inwardly. Another day at work, just like all the rest. Hop on his bicycle, pick up his coffee, ride to the doctor’s office, and shower. See patients for six hours straight (most with self-diagnosed diseases off of the Internet, which never turn out to be true), and try to help people out because he’s a doctor, and that’s what doctors should do. Save people. Even when they’re dying from a bullet wound to the stomach because they got shot by--  
He stopped himself before he could get any further. Already, John had spent far too much time thinking back on that day, and he was not going to waste another minute of this one doing so.  
John swung his legs over his bike and took off down the sidewalk. The wind caressed his hair and made his clothes billow behind him, giving him a similar feeling of adrenaline like what he used to feel when he ran through the streets of London, trying to catch up with the man with those sharp cheekbones and bouncy black curls… But, in his heart, he knew that biking brought him nothing close to the thrill of the chase. It was just a pathetic excuse.  
He steered his bike so it aligned parallel to the street, right beneath the street sign proudly displaying “Old Kent Road.” Right at the southeast corner of London. Away from his past life… but not too far away.  
“Rosie? I’m home!” he called as he passed through the door frame, hanging his hat and coat on the hooks beside him. John didn’t hear an immediate response, so he began to ascend the staircase quickly, feeling around in his pocket for his revolver. Upon turning the corner, a very unpleasant sight met his eyes. Rosie was there, all right. Perfectly fine. But she had her laptop open to a page that he never wanted to see again.  
“Oh, hey Da--”  
“ROSAMUND MARY! GIVE ME THAT LAPTOP RIGHT NOW,” John bellowed, extending his hand.  
Rosie jumped. It was rare for her to see her father get that angry.  
“Fine, geez. I just found this page online… I didn’t know you had a blog,” Rosie said, turning her blond head to look at her father in the eyes. Those bright blue eyes… they got John every time. He took a deep breath.  
“Give it,” he repeated, refusing to acknowledge her statement.  
“Who was this Sherlock Holmes person? I mean, I heard his name before… but you actually knew him?”  
“Rosie--”  
“You used to be a detective! You solved crimes like the spies that I used to read about! Why didn’t you tell me?”  
“I just--”  
“I mean, why didn’t you tell me? Being a detective is the coolest job--”  
John snatched her laptop. It was open to “A Study in Pink.” He quelled the rush of emotions flooding through him and gently closed the laptop. Rosie crossed her arms, clearly stating with her expression “I’m waiting.”  
“Rosie, I just don’t really want to talk about this right now. You’re only twelve years old, so--”  
“I’m thirteen!” Rosie exclaimed, looking hurt.  
“Thirteen, right. Sorry Rosie, these years are all blending together for me…” John cleared his throat.  
“Well, Sherlock Holmes was a detective,” John said, “and I was his meaningless assistant. It’s quite simple.” John started to walk away with the laptop. Rosie ran after him and stopped him in his tracks.  
“Tell me about the fights and all this cool serial killer stuff. Did you ever find out who really shot the cab driver? Doesn’t that bother you, not knowing who killed him?” she asked, looking at his face for giveaway emotions. But John had learned from the best as to how to hide emotions.  
“No, it doesn’t,” he said frankly. Of course, he had written his blog without mentioning that it was he who had done the shooting, because that's not something you would want to publicize.  
“I’ll make dinner in an hour,” John said, moving past her and into his bedroom. He heard her stomp her foot outside the closed door, and slowly her footsteps receded down the hall.  
John sat down heavily on his bed and opened the laptop. He sighed. Looking back at his blog posts, it was hard not to miss the good old days. Chasing down crime with Sherlock, finding a friend and saving both of them, actually doing something productive with his life…  
Tears started to come to his eyes, but John quickly swiped them away. Now was not the time for reminiscing. Sherlock had gotten his wife killed. It was Sherlock’s fault, Sherlock’s fault, all his fault. Rosie only had a father now, a father who barely knew her age. Because of Sherlock. It was all. His. Fault.  
The small voice in the back of his head raised a small concern of doubt.  
“But was it really all his fault?” it said. “Weren’t you the doctor who froze upon seeing your wife bleeding out from her bullet wound, the doctor who just let your wife die?”  
“Shut up,” John murmured aloud. But the voice wouldn’t have silence.  
“Weren’t you the doctor who felt the smallest bit of relief when you saw your dead wife on the floor?”  
“SHUT UP!” John yelled. He sat there for a minute, marveling at how low he had sunk, when things used to be so good. Things were so good…  
“Dad, I’m going to a friend’s house,” Rosie called from outside his door.  
“O-okay,” John replied shakily.  
“Are you alright?” Rosie asked. What a wonderful daughter he had. He should give her more credit.  
“I’m fine. Have fun, now,” John said. He heard the rustle of Rosie’s coat being removed from the hook, and the bang as the front door closed behind her. John took one last look at her laptop open on his bed, then shut his eyes and laid down for a nap.


	2. The Journey to 221B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie is curious, and decides to get some answers for herself.

Rosie was not going to a friend’s house. She was, in fact, going to 221B Baker Street. If her father wasn’t going to answer her questions, then she was going to find someone who would.  
Once she was outside, she pulled out her phone and dialed the first number in her recents.  
“Hello?” the female voice answered.  
“Hi, Aunt Molly. It’s Rosie.”  
“Oh, hi, Rosie! What’s happening?”  
“Well, my dad had to stay at work late today, so I was wondering if you could drive me to Speedy’s cafe? I’m supposed to meet a friend there in ten minutes.”  
On the other end of the line, Molly hesitated. Rosie frowned. So she knew about Sherlock too.  
“Um, sure! I’ll be right over,” she said, hanging up. Rosie grinned. She might not be the smartest girl in school, but she definitely knew how to get what she wanted.  
Five minutes later, Molly’s car came around the corner of the street, and Rosie ran out to meet her. She had moved her dad’s bike around the back of the house, so Molly wouldn’t get suspicious.  
“Hey, Rosie. How’s it going?” Molly said, when Rosie got in.  
“Fine. Nothing new.”  
“Well that’s good, I suppose. How’s your father?”  
“Fine. He only yelled at himself once today, from what I could hear.”  
Molly frowned. “Okay. I should visit you guys more often. He seems like he could use some company.”  
“He’s got me,” Rosie replied.  
“Yes, he does. And I’m sure that he loves talking to you. But sometimes its nice to see other adults once and awhile, too.” Rosie shrugged.  
“So, who are you meeting today?” Molly asked, after a few moments of silence.  
“My friend Lily. She’s in my biology and English classes. She’s really nice.” This wasn’t a complete lie. There was a Lily in her school, but she didn’t even know her last name.  
“Good! I’m glad that you’re getting to hang out with someone today. After all, it’s beautiful outside!”  
Rosie smiled. Leave it to Molly to find the best in every day.  
“Well, I’ll be seeing you later, I suppose?” Molly said, when they arrived outside the red awning bearing the words “Speedy’s Sandwich Bar & Cafe.”  
“I think my dad will be able to pick me up, but thanks!” Rosie said, hugging her and getting out of the car. She walked into the restaurant and waited for Molly to drive away. Once she saw the small grey car retreat down the street, she popped back out of the cafe and walked up to the regal black door. Her father must have entered this door more times than she could count. And yet he’d never taken her here, not once.  
Rosie gripped the golden knocker (which was slightly tilted to the right) and banged hard on the door. Within a minute, an older woman opened the door.  
“Hello, dear,” she said. “Are you here for a case?”  
“Yes, yes I am,” Rosie replied. “Is Mr. Sherlock Holmes here?”  
“Of course he is,” the woman said, with faint disapproval. “Where else would he be these days?” she muttered under her breath.  
Rosie followed the woman inside. Once the door was shut behind her, it was hard to see much of anything, save for some very dully lighted stairs.   
“Sherlock!” the woman called up the stairs. “Client!”  
Rosie heard a vague grumbling from the room above. The woman smiled at her.   
“Go right up,” she said.  
Rosie cautiously climbed the staircase and entered the main room. At once, her eye was caught on all of the strange artifacts throughout the room. There was a human skull on the mantelpiece.   
“Have a seat,” a deep voice said from her right. Rosie looked down and saw a man in his forties with black, curly hair. He had scruff all over his face, and looked as though he hadn’t taken a shower in a month. He gestured to a small wooden chair north of his own, brown one. There was an empty space across from where Sherlock was sitting, as though there had been furniture there that had since been removed.  
“So, how was it growing up with no mother? I assume she died or left when you were quite little, leaving you alone with your doctor father who has since done a mediocre job of raising you. You’ve come here with something on your mind, and it’s been bothering you for a while. What is it, do you require help on your lab report, or finding a boyfriend in your miserable little school? Please do tell, I haven’t had an interesting case in over a week,” the man rattled off, firing his statements at her like the automatic pitching machine that she practiced softball with.  
“How… how did you know that I didn’t have a mom? Or that my dad was a doctor?” Rosie replied, confused. Her father had described Sherlock’s intelligence in his blog, but she certainly didn’t expect… that.  
“Well, by the style of your hair and clothes, two things a father wouldn’t know much about, it seems as if you haven’t had a mother pick these things out for you. The cuts on your left arm and right leg are very cleanly taken care of, suggesting that your remaining parent is in the medical field, and by your age I can only guess that you are in middle school, oh what a treacherous time that was, which suggests that you either have ‘boy problems’ or need help on a simple school assignment that your father won’t assist you with because he doesn’t pay nearly as much attention to you as he probably should. Am I wrong?” he challenged.  
“Yes,” Rosie snapped. “I’m not here because of some stupid school problem.”  
“Oh really? Then what?”  
“I’m the daughter of someone you knew pretty well. John Watson?”  
At those two words, the man’s face light up with emotion. Whereas he had previously been unreadable, obvious signs of happiness, confusion, and extreme sadness flickered across his features. He leaned closer to her, as if he were seeing her for the first time.  
“Rosamund?” he asked, all of his arrogance gone. The one word was uttered with such delicacy and question that Rosie wondered if she was now speaking to a completely different person.  
“Yes, that’s me. I was reading my dad’s blog the other day, but he wouldn’t answer my questions about it, so I came here.”  
“H-how? Is he outside? Did John drive you?” Sherlock asked, looking like a small child discovering a candy store in his backyard.  
“No, my Aunt Molly did.”  
“Molly Hooper?”  
“Yes. She’s not my real aunt, but she’s helped out so much that we just kind of call her family.” Rosie shrugged.  
“I see…” Sherlock mumbled, standing up from his chair and pacing around the room, sneaking glances at her and looking away with sadness and hurt.  
“What happened between you and my father?” Rosie asked.  
Sherlock stopped pacing and faced the window. He muttered something that sounded like “northberry.”  
“Rosamund, I am so, so sorry,” he said, facing her with tears in his eyes.  
“For what?”  
All of a sudden, footsteps echoed up the stairs. It was the woman who had let her in.  
“Did you say Rosamund?” she asked incredulously.  
“Yes, Mrs. Hudson. This is Rosamund Watson,” Sherlock said.  
“Rosie,” she said. The repeated use of her full name was making her uncomfortable.  
“Oh, Rosie!” Mrs. Hudson said, sweeping her up in her arms. Rosie felt awkward at first, but this woman felt like the closest thing she had experienced to a grandmother. She relaxed in her arms.  
Mrs. Hudson pulled away with tears in her eyes.  
“Why does everyone keep crying when they see me?!” Rosie shouted, starting to get annoyed. An hour ago, she hadn’t even known who these people were, and now they were crying as soon as they saw her. “What were you sorry about, anyways?” she snapped at Sherlock.  
He took a deep breath, and sank into his chair. He looked into her eyes, and she realized that his were startlingly blue.  
“I’m sorry for killing your mother.”


	3. Tears of Realization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie discovers things she never knew before, and they continue to surprise her.

“It’s okay, John. Everything will be alright,” Sherlock said, covering John’s hand with his own. Strange tingles ran up John’s spine. The coolness of Sherlock’s hand greatly contrasted with the sweatiness and trembling of his own. John gripped the gun tighter, and pointed it at the girl on the floor of the aquarium.   
“Please, please Dad. Stop!” Rosie cried, as sharks floated through the water above her. John wanted to stop, badly, but he couldn’t. He looked at Sherlock once more for approval, and when he smiled and nodded, John shut his eyes and pulled the trigger, bracing himself for what was to follow…  
John sat up with a gasp. His dream had got one thing right; he was definitely sweating.   
“Rosie?” he called, suddenly panicking. He got up from his bed and ran into the living room. “Rosie?”  
John whipped out his cellphone and, with fumbling fingers, texted Rosie. “Where are you??!!”  
As soon as he hit the send button, he remembered. She was just with a friend. Everything was fine.  
Everything, except from his awful recurring nightmare he had every time he drifted off into the realm of sleep. Sherlock persuading him to kill his own daughter. In an aquarium. Just like Mary.  
John put his head in his hands.

 

Rosie’s phone buzzed, but she ignored it. She hadn’t moved ever since Sherlock’s declaration. "I killed your mother," he said. Mrs. Hudson was watching from the doorway, similarly frozen.  
“I’m going to make some tea,” she whispered, and quickly exited the room.  
“How?” Rosie said, shoulders sagging. She felt drained, and collapsed back into her seat. All of a sudden, her father’s resentment towards this man made sense. But Sherlock looked so, so sincerely sorry about it that it was hard to hate him. “How?” Rosie repeated, with a stronger voice.  
Sherlock took a deep breath.   
“There was a woman, you see, who had previously tipped off the group that your mother was...er...working against, and your mother’s mission failed because of it. I found that woman, and cornered her, but I--” his shaky voice faded completely. Sherlock tried again. “I goaded her on. And she fired a shot. At me. But your mother, she jumped in front of me. Saved my life. Took a literal bullet for me. And I… I let your father down. I let them both down. You were just a few weeks old. And I killed your mother. It’s my fault. All my fault.” Sherlock turned his haunted blue eyes towards her. “Forgive me. Please, please forgive me.”  
Rosie was starting to feel pricks behind her eyes as well. All she had known before was that her mother died in an accident, according to her father. But she hadn't. She had died a hero. And if this man was worth her mother’s sacrifice, then she obviously had a damn good reason for doing so.   
Before she knew what she was doing, Rosie found herself walking over to Sherlock and hugging him tight. She barely knew the man, but his look of such self-loathing and hatred propelled her to take action. Sherlock stiffened, but eventually folded his arms around her, whispering “I’m so sorry” over and over.  
“I forgive you,” Rosie said, backing away. “It was my mother’s choice.”  
“No, no, I don’t deserve forgiveness. I don’t deserve that at all. Even after she died, I couldn't even grant her last request. One thing, she asked for one thing..."  
“And what was that?”  
“To save your father. ‘Save John Watson,’ she said. And look what I did. Look what I DID,” he cried, slamming his hands down on the table next to her. Rosie jumped.   
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson cried, entering the room with a tray of tea and biscuits. “That’s no way to act around your goddaughter!”  
“Goddaughter?” Rosie repeated, wondering how many more surprises she could handle in one day. “Dad told me that Aunt Molly was my only godparent!” She sat down heavily into her chair again. “Did he ever tell me anything true?”  
Rosie’s phone buzzed again, and this time she whipped it out angrily. It was her father.   
“Where are you??!!” followed by “Are you ready to be picked up?”  
Rosie looked around the room, seeing how much pain her father had caused everyone. Sherlock, disheveled and emotionally destroyed. Mrs. Hudson, trying to piece him back together, but failing. And Rosie herself, under false beliefs her whole life as to where she had come from.  
“Yes. Speedy’s Cafe” she typed, jamming her thumb into the send button. Her father was going to have to face his consequences.


	4. 221B Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes to retrieve Rosie--and has to face his past in doing so.

John decided to take a cab this time, so Rosie wouldn’t have to walk while he rode his bike home. “Of course she had to pick Speedy’s,” he thought angrily. Of all the cafes in London, she chose the one closest to the very place he had been trying to avoid for the last thirteen years.   
The cab driver let him out right outside the cafe. John thanked him, paid, and walked inside. After a quick scan of the booths, however, there was no sign of Rosie. John’s heart began to pound. His brain immediately raced to the worst conclusions.  
“Have you seen a young, blond girl in here earlier?” he asked the nearest waiter. The man frowned for a minute, thinking, but shook his head.   
“Dammit,” John muttered. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”  
He asked two more waitresses if they had seen Rosie, but they both shook their heads. Upon reaching the devastating conclusion that Rosie wasn’t there, John stormed out of the cafe. He slowly turned to his right and, low and behold, there was the door. The black door reading “221B” in gold letters; the gold knocker slightly crooked. Apparently Mycroft hadn't been here in awhile either.   
John cautiously stepped up to the door. Memories came crashing down around him like meteors. Entering for the first time, after Stamford had hooked the two of them up, stumbling in with Sherlock after getting completely drunk before his wedding, nearly breaking down the door to get his belongings after Mary’s death…  
John hesitated. Why on Earth would Rosie be here? What was he even doing? And what would he do if, when he entered that horrid flat, Rosie wasn’t there?  
He pulled out his phone and texted her one last time.

 

Rosie’s phone vibrated. She put down her biscuit and fumbled for it in her pocket. “Are you at 221B?” it read. From her father.  
“Yes” she answered. Oh, he would yell at her later for this.  
A second after she hit the send button, there was a knock at the door. Mrs. Hudson excused herself and went to answer it. Sherlock glanced at Rosie, and she nodded.  
Rosie heard a squeal from Mrs. Hudson downstairs. Whether it was out of happiness or anger, she couldn't tell.  
She heard voices murmuring, and within a minute, John appeared at the top of the staircase. Rosie looked at Sherlock. He was gazing at John like he had never seen him before, looking so vulnerable.  
“Well. Time to go then, Rosie,” John said, clearing his throat. His eyes never left Sherlock’s. Rosie felt like she was interrupting something.  
“Dad, why didn't you tell me that Sherlock was my godfather?” Rosie dared.  
John’s expression turned to one of anger, but he quickly reeled it in.   
“Well, he was before that night in the aquarium. Now, come on, Rosie.”  
“John, I--” Sherlock started.  
“NOTHING FROM YOU. YOU DON’T DESERVE TO TALK TO ME OR MY DAUGHTER,” John bellowed. Sherlock looked like someone had stabbed him.  
“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry,” he said. “That’s all.”  
“Well, thanks for that,” John replied cruelly. “Even though that does nothing at all.”  
“I didn’t want Mary to die! I wanted you two to have a happy life, and--”  
“I. Don't. Care. What. You. Wanted,” John said. “I wanted my wife to be alive, but look how that turned out.”  
“It wasn't his fault,” Rosie chimed in, gathering all of her guts.  
“What did you just say?” John said, at last looking away from Sherlock.  
“I said, it wasn't his fault,” Rosie repeated. “Mum chose to do what she did, and she knew what the consequences were going to be.”  
For a while, John just stared at Rosie. He made several attempts to start another sentence, but all resulted in frustrated sighs.   
“It’s time to go, Rosie,” he finally managed. And with that, he walked out.  
Rosie looked at Sherlock. “I’m sorry--”  
“Go on,” he said. “Don’t leave John waiting.”  
Rosie bit her tongue and made to exit the flat.  
“Rosam--Rosie?” Sherlock stammered.  
She turned. “Yes?”  
“Thank you.”


	5. John. Johnjohnjohn.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie, Sherlock, and John deal with the previous encounter in their own ways.

The cab ride home was awkward. Rosie stared out into the streets of London while John sat there and thought. Thought about everything that he had forced himself to forget for thirteen years.  
Rosie was a constant reminder. Of her. Mary. And every day, when John woke up alone in his bed, missing the warmth of an accompanying woman beside him, he saw Rosie, and Rosie’s hair and Rosie’s eyes, and he missed her. Mary. He missed her.  
But not as much as he was supposed to.  
John had to ask himself: did he miss Mary? Or did he miss company in general?  
Why, days before her death, had he decided to text someone on a bus who had given him her number? John didn’t even know the woman, not at all. But was his wife, his pre-super-spy, assassin wife, not enough excitement for him?  
The answer hit him. It was Sherlock that he missed. It’s always Sherlock.  
The cab pulled up in front of their home, and it took Rosie saying “Dad?” at least two times before John awakened from his stupor and exited the cab.   
When they got inside, John turned to Rosie, who opened her mouth as to provide an explanation for where she had gone, what she had done. John held up a hand to stop her.  
“Oh, Rosie. I understand. It’s not your fault. I guess it’s just in our blood.”  
Rosie was moving to hang her coat up but she paused, confused. “What’s in our blood?”  
John sighed. “The need for Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock hadn’t moved since they left. Since he left.  
John Watson. John. Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn.  
His hair had grown longer, and untidier. Sherlock was relieved to see that he hadn’t bothered with a mustache again; they both remembered how the first one had worked out. He had put on weight, probably 15 pounds since he had last seen him. He looked even more drained than he had in Mycroft’s photographs. Poor John. John needed him. But he was so, so angry at him.  
Sherlock’s mind felt awakened again. For a second, he could have sworn that he saw that flicker in John’s eye. Beneath all the obvious hate and anger, he knew that he saw it.  
The flicker of adventure.   
John needed it. He needed it as much as Sherlock did. But without the other, they were both suffering. Why wouldn’t John just come home?  
Sherlock withdrew the needle from its case. He was running low… the amount he had now would normally last him a week, but after today… he would have to refill tomorrow, most likely.   
Sherlock braced himself for the small prick. But once the needle was in, it was worth it. Kind of like John. Pain, but satisfaction in the end. Unlike the drugs, however, the pain that came along with John lasted a lot longer than the satisfaction.  
Sherlock’s eyes drifted shut, and he allowed himself to slip away into his mind palace. Who would feature today?  
Sherlock expected John; John was a daily visitor. But he had seen a new face today. And it was she who had come.  
There she was, only weeks old. “If you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle!” he said, only to receive the toy once more in the face.  
The rattle shattered the glass through which he was watching, and he was thrown back into the faded brown chair he was currently residing in. And there, thirteen years later, there she was.  
Rosamund Mary Watson. Rosamund Mary Watson Jr.? Did they do that with girls named after their mothers?   
He decided not. Rosie was her own person. His goddaughter. John’s daughter.   
She had sought him out here, without telling John where she was going. Why? Because she was curious. Did she, too, need the adventure? It wouldn’t surprise him, seeing as she was the spawn of two wild, reckless people who shared his similar thirst. The game. They needed the game.   
But the game was not, in fact, on. Not since John had left him. John Watson. Johnjohnjohnjohn.  
Sherlock’s eyes opened with a gasp. Mrs. Hudson was standing above him, shouting something.  
“...no way to treat yourself! And you wonder why John doesn’t--”  
“Mrs. Hudson. I’m going out,” he said, pushing past her and descending the stairs.  
He heard her offended sniff from behind him, as well as the words “You’re not going like… that?”  
Sherlock didn’t care. People could judge him all they wanted. They already had. Only one person’s opinion mattered; and it seemed that Sherlock wouldn’t have to worry about seeing him for a while.

 

Rosie hadn’t focused very much in school. Her mind was other places, namely, 221B Baker Street. As soon as she unlocked the door, she ran into the house and started searching for her laptop. She wanted to read her father’s blog.   
She could read it on her phone, she supposed, but the quality was much better on a computer.   
Rosie searched everywhere in her bedroom and in the living room before remembering: it was in her father’s room. Rosie knew that she wasn’t supposed to go in there, but she had to this time. It was for her father’s own good.  
Just as she stepped foot inside of the doorway, her phone started ringing. It was her dad’s work. How could he have seen her? Did he have cameras hanging from his ceiling, making sure that she wouldn’t go near his stuff?  
Rosie nervously pulled out her phone while, at the same time, examined the ceiling carefully.  
“He-hello?”  
“Rosie, hi. I think I left my phone at home today… could you check for me? I just want to make sure that I hadn’t lost it anywhere on my way,” John said.  
“Sure, yeah! Um… yep! I found it. You’re all set,” Rosie replied, spotting his phone on the kitchen table.  
“Alright, thanks Rosie. See you in a couple of hours.”  
“Okay, Dad.”  
“Love you.”  
“Love you, too.”  
Rosie hung up and stared at her father’s phone. Of course. They had worked together for years, so of course her father would have Sherlock’s number! Sherlock never checked his website anymore, so there was only one way of contacting him. And that was through the device she was staring at right now.  
Rosie shoved aside the small voice in her head telling her that this wasn't right and seized her father's phone. He really needed to put a password on this thing.  
She scrolled through her dad’s messages, looking for Sherlock… Sherlock… Sherlock...   
There he was. At the bottom of the list. Rosie opened the message just to get Sherlock’s number, but what she saw made her heart break.  
March 31st, just two months ago. “Happy birthday, John. SH”  
January 1st. “Happy new year, John. SH”   
December 25th, last year. “Merry Christmas, John. SH”  
Those three messages. Every year, those same three messages. For 13 straight years.  
Rosie was surprised to feel moisture on her face, and quickly swiped away the tears on her cheeks. As she got to the top of the messages, before the first “Merry Christmas,” she saw the first message.   
“I'm so sorry, John. Please try to forgive me. Please let me help. SH”


	6. Hi, Sherlock. It's Rosie.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie contacts Sherlock, Sherlock shaves, and John takes a cab.

Sherlock’s phone vibrated, jolting him out of his drug-induced stupor.   
He peeled his eyes open and blinked, trying to adjust to the light.   
“hi Sherlock, it's Rosie”  
“Rosie Watson?” he responded. How had she…?  
“yes. I got this number from my dad’s phone :)”  
What a smart little girl. She was just like her mother.  
“Do you require my help with something?”  
“nope. but I do wanna come to your flat after school. I want to talk to you.”  
Sherlock rustled uneasily in his chair. He wasn't busy, but surely John wouldn't approve of this…  
“Alright. See you then. SH” he typed, and slipped the phone back into his robe. He glanced down at the shining needle once more, but all he could see was Rosie’s young, eager face staring back at him. And then John, on the airplane that was supposed to send him to his death 14 years ago, looking at him disbelievingly and disappointedly after reading the list of everything Sherlock had taken minutes before.  
Sherlock slammed the needle’s case shut and stood up. He walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His facial hair was growing out of control, almost long enough to be called stubble. Stubble. This was unacceptable.  
He flung open his cabinet door and fumbled around for shaving cream and a razor. If he was going to start being a… godfather… he should probably stop looking like a druggie. That would be a good idea.  
As Sherlock’s razor paved paths through the white cream, he thought. Rosie had chosen a good time to contact him. He had been feeling lower than usual in the past few months. Ever since John’s most recent birthday, Sherlock has started to realize that he would probably not see John ever again. John, who he had started to live for, before Mary’s death, at least. Before he moved away and left him alone and broken.  
And Sherlock thought that he was sad when John moved out of Baker Street to live with Mary. Now, he chortled. That sadness was like a lightbulb compared to the Sun of depression he has been fighting through for the past decade. He had grown careless about his drug use; ending up in the hospital three times because of overdoses. Mycroft was probably the only reason he was still alive. Mycroft and the purges of his flat, when he was out. But Mycroft could never find them all…  
Sherlock scraped away the last drop of shaving cream and examined his face in the mirror. He didn't recognize the person staring back at him. He was so different, so changed. So emotionally weak. So dependent and susceptible to the flood of human emotions he had tried to hold back for so long. But the dam had broken. Instead of looking at John and seeing a boring, ordinary person oblivious to the world, as he did when he had first met John, he saw a man full of opportunity, and caring, and humanity. And kindness and bravery and flaws, and beauty.   
In John Watson, Sherlock saw love.

 

Rosie got off at a different bus stop today, as close as she could get to Baker Street. She has to restrain herself from sprinting all the way to flat 221B, because that might draw unwanted attention. And her father had told her never to attract any more attention than necessary.  
There was a man waiting outside of the flat when she arrived, slightly out of breath from her fast-paced jog. It was Sherlock, wearing his black coat and facing the other direction.  
“Hi, Sherlock. Did you want to talk somewhere else?” Rosie asked, directing her question at the back of his untidy curls.  
“No, right here should be fine,” he responded. His voice was slightly higher than usual.   
Rosie laughed awkwardly. “Um… okay, then. Well, I wanted to--”  
Sherlock whipped around and slapped his hand over her mouth. There was a sharp prick in her neck. As her world went blurry, Rosie realized something. That wasn't Sherlock.

 

15 missed calls. John could only think of one reason why Rosie wouldn’t be answering her phone, and that meant that she must be somewhere she didn’t want him to find her. Which meant she was probably on Baker Street.  
As John waited for a cab, he tapped his foot nervously on the sidewalk. He tried her phone again. Nothing.  
Fine. If Rosie wasn’t going to answer, then he was going to have to do the unthinkable.  
John scrolled through his messages until he found Sherlock’s number. His thumbs hesitated above the keyboard while he doubted what he was about to do, but John made up his mind and began typing.   
“Is Rosie with you?”  
John received an almost immediate response, as though Sherlock had been waiting for him to get in contact.  
“No.”  
John froze.  
“If you are lying to me, I will kill you, Sherlock.”  
“Why would I lie?”  
“Well, where is she, then?”  
“How should I know?”  
John muttered some choice words about his ex-flatmate as he stepped into the cab.   
“Baker Street, please,” John mumbled, without looking up.  
“I’m sorry, but I don’t think you are going to be the one choosing the destination today, Mr. Watson,” the cabbie replied.  
“Excuse me?” John breathed, taken aback. It was only then that he looked up from his phone and realized that he was not alone in the cab. There was a man next to him, dressed exactly like Sherlock. The same hair, coat, scarf, and condescending smile as if this man knew so many things that John didn’t.  
And this smug man was holding a gun.

 

“John? Have you found Rosie?”  
Sherlock was anxious at John’s lack of response. He had thought that John wouldn’t believe him, and would have shown up at Baker Street anyways just to be absolutely sure that Rosie wasn’t on the premises.  
Sherlock frowned. The time it would take to get from John’s house to Baker Street was approximately 25.4 minutes, at the normal speed of a cab, but it had already been 30 minutes since John’s last text. Could he be in trouble?  
Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the sitting room.  
“Oh, Sherlock! You’ve shaved!” she said delightedly. “I’m very glad to see that, you know. Once, just after our honeymoon, my husband had grown out his hair like that. Just enough hair to call it a beard, but oh, it was dreadful! And he--”  
“Mrs. Hudson, what would you do if you didn’t know where your daughter was?” Sherlock interrupted, walking over to the window and peering out at the streets once more.  
“I don’t know. I would try to contact everyone she would go to, I suppose. Why do you ask?”  
Sherlock shrugged into his coat, and flung his scarf around his neck.  
“Because Rosie’s missing.”


	7. Such a Tough Guy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John texts Sherlock, and Sherlock responds.

John lunged for the door of the cab, but it was locked. The man with the gun nudged him threateningly.  
“So, John. We’re not going to Baker Street,” the cabbie said. “I’m feeling very generous today… I think I might just bring you to your daughter!”  
John froze in the act of removing his revolver from his pocket.  
“What have you done. To Rosie.” A nerve was pulsing in John’s forehead.  
“Why, only the traditional kidnapping traditions. You know, tying the victim up, gagging them with a piece of cloth, maybe starting to torture a little bit.”  
“Don’t you touch her, you despicable--”  
“Ah ah, John. Relax. We wouldn’t want anything more to happen to her, would we? No? That’s what I thought.” The cabbie started to pull away from John’s house, going in the opposite direction of Baker Street.  
John relaxed his hold on the revolver, for now. He would save that surprise until after he found Rosie.  
“Can I see your phone?” the Sherlock-doppleganger asked, holding out his hand.  
When John didn’t immediately respond, the man snarled, and cocked the gun.  
“I wasn’t askin’.”  
John rolled his eyes and handed over the phone. It felt like a violation of his privacy to have this stranger scrolling through all his messages.  
“Ooh, who’s this?” the man said, starting to read out the texts between John and his therapist. “‘How do you feel today, John? I haven’t seen you in awhile. Would you like to set up an appointment?’ ‘No. I’m over it.’ Wow, such a tough guy! Emotions can’t touch you!”  
It took all of John’s self-restraint not to reach over and strangle the man. But he had to think of Rosie. He wasn’t sure how much damage had already been done to her, and he didn’t want to risk any more.  
“Now, let’s get to business. To Sherlock. ‘Help, Sherlock. I think these men might have Rosie. Meet me at Halfords. Please. I need you.’” The man paused and looked up into John’s face, before adding “‘Love, John.’”  
“You bast--”  
“Remember Rosie!” the man cried, easily evading John’s lunge. Once he was out of immediate danger, he added “Touchy subject, huh?”  
“You leave me and my daughter alone,” John snarled. “Sherlock will come. And you are underestimating him, goddammit. He will beat you. He beats everyone. He’s Sherlock Holmes. That’s what he DOES.” John broke off.  
“Or, that’s what he was supposed to do,” he finished, in his head. John couldn’t lose Rosie too. Mary had taken him thirteen years to recover from, and he still wasn’t the same man he was years ago. Losing Rosie might just be the end of him.  
“Please, Sherlock,” John prayed. “Please come through.”

 

27.2 minutes. This cab was slow.  
Sherlock leaped out of the cab and ran to John’s door. He smashed his finger into the doorbell, and when no one answered within ten seconds, he rang again.  
Sherlock sighed in frustration. Obviously, John wasn’t home. But, from the very faint imprints that Sherlock could make out in the grass, it seemed that John had recently left. Sherlock ran into the road and searched for any sign of which direction he went, and with what mode of transportation, but there was nothing. His eyes swept the street, darting from place to place to place, but he couldn’t get anything. Maybe his deducing skills were getting a bit rusty.  
Sherlock returned to the front steps to attempt forced entry, and he was fishing around in his pocket for a hairpin when his phone buzzed. Sherlock thrust his hands into his pockets, grasping for the phone like it was his only hope.  
He read John’s message so fast that he didn’t completely absorb the whole meaning the first time through. After his seventh read, however, Sherlock knew at least one thing. That message was not from John.  
The John Watson he knew would never say “help” or “I need you.” John was a strong man.  
And he would most certainly not say “Love John.” Right? Because John was straight. John liked women. Not him.…  
Right?  
A sudden wave of hope surged through Sherlock. He tried to quell it with logical thoughts, but hope got the best of him. What if it was John? Did he dare believe that John Watson… loved him?  
“Rosie. Rosie. That’s what you’re doing. Find Rosie,” Sherlock muttered. Halford’s was only three minutes away. Two, if he ran.  
So Sherlock gathered up his coat and shoved away his hopes, and he ran.  
He was going to save John Watson.


	8. Halfords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and Rosie are reunited in Halfords, along with some special guests.

Rosie came to in a dark room. On her sides were two women, chatting over her head.  
“Do you really think he’ll come?” the one on her left whispered.  
“Of course he will,” the second responded. “Mr. Smith knows exactly what he’s doing.”  
Rosie shifted uncomfortably in the wooden chair, the taste of cold fabric making her want to gag.  
“Well hello, beautiful! Glad you could finally join us!” The woman on her right stepped in front of her and smiled. “Now, we’re just waiting on your dad, and then for the big hero. Sherlock Holmes.”  
There was a loud bang, and a column of light shone down on Rosie as a door was opened behind her. The women turned her chair around to face the new guest.  
“Rosie!” John yelled, trying with all his might to throw off the men holding his arms. He successfully surprised the smaller man of the two, and managed to free his right hand and remove his revolver. The two women on either side of her withdrew their guns as well, holding one to each side of Rosie’s head.  
“Think carefully about this, John,” cooed a voice from behind Rosie. John shifted his gun to focus on the figure behind her.  
“Who the hell are… are you Culverton Smith?” John said, taken aback. “Please, you have to help me! These people are trying to harm me and my daughter, and--”  
“Yes, I know, John. I hired them. I felt like having a bit of fun today. Haven’t killed in a while,” Culverton Smith drawled from the shadows. “And why not kill Sherlock Holmes? You know what they say. Go big or go home!” He laughed a manic laugh, sending chills down Rosie’s spine.  
John looked shocked, but tried to regain his composure. He steadied his shaking hands, and looked at Rosie. “I will get you out of this, Rosie. I will get help.” Rosie nodded, tears leaking down her face. She was only thirteen. She didn’t want to die, not yet.  
“Yes, you will,” a deep voice declared from behind John. Rosie squinted against the sunlight, but could still make out the tall, lean figure of Sherlock Holmes. “Hello, John.”  
“Bloody hell, Sherlock. It took you long enough.”  
“Now, did I hear that you wanted to see me?” Sherlock said, stepping into the store.  
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I did,” Culverton Smith replied. “I thought that I would have a fun little game today. It’s called… pick one person to save, and the other dies. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”  
“Not particularly,” Sherlock responded. “Unless you are the one that dies.”  
Culverton Smith giggled. “I’m flattered. But today, I think that John is going to be the one choosing.” The men holding John nodded, as if having received a signal, and kicked out his legs from under him. Sherlock rushed forwards, but the two men had their guns on him as well. John and Rosie were trapped.  
“Now, I invite John Watson to the stage!” Culverton Smith shouted. A spotlight from the second floor of the store beamed down and onto John.  
“Hello, Mr. Watson. In today’s round of ‘save or kill,’ you will be choosing between the two special people in your life. I present to you, your first choice… Mr. Sherlock Holmes!”   
“Anything to say for yourself, Mr. Holmes?”  
“Why do you take such pleasure in others’ pain?” Sherlock asked.  
“Same reason that you do. Because it’s entertaining. And it’s fun,” Culverton Smith responded. “I thought you, of all people, would understand the fun that a little game can bring.”  
“The last time someone tried to play a game with me, they ended up blowing their own brains out on a rooftop. I beat Moriarity, and I’ll beat you, too.”  
“Well, this time, I have another player. John’s second choice… Rosamund Watson!”  
Rosie squirmed in her chair. There were footsteps, and the cloth was removed from Rosie’s mouth.  
“Please, Sherlock, you have to do something. You have to help, you have to help!” Rosie cried, desperately seeking a way out, but finding none.  
“You have no control over me, Culverton Smith. Why, I could kill you, right this very instant,” Sherlock bellowed.  
“Oh, Mr. Holmes. You’re better than that. I have plenty of control over you; they’re both sitting right in front of me!” Smith cackled. “Now, Mr. Watson. It’s time to choose.  
“Who’s going to die?”


	9. The Seventh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gunfire erupts, and few make it out alive.

Sherlock stared at John. He knew who he was going to pick. He had to pick her. Rosie was his daughter. Sherlock was just the sociopath who had gotten his wife killed. Why not return the favor?  
“I’m going to give you to the count of ten,” Culverton Smith began. “John, if you don’t say who you will save, then you will all die. So. Ten. Nine. Eight…”  
The world seemed to slow down around Sherlock. He looked at Rosie, his goddaughter. She was going to visit him, today. But instead, she had been kidnapped and threatened with death. She was thirteen.  
He looked at Culverton Smith. The celebrity serial killer. Sherlock had suspected this, but never had the resources or the willpower to confront him after Mary’s death. And here he was, causing Sherlock’s world to crash and burn around him.  
And then he looked at John. John, with far too much stress on his face for a man of his age. Too much harm had come to him; too much death and loss and depression and sadness. John Watson, his partner. His friend. His life.  
And in that moment, Sherlock decided something. If he was going to die, then he was damn well going to die for John Watson.  
“Four. Three. Two…”  
“ROSIE!” John screamed. “Fine. I--I’ll save Rosie.” He squeezed his eyes shut, and when he opened them, they were full of self-hate and sadness. He was avoiding eye contact with Sherlock.  
“John, look at me. Look at me!” Sherlock cried. John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock with tears in his eyes. “This is not your fault. Rosie was coming to see me, this afternoon. That’s why they took her. To get to me. So don’t you dare go blaming yourself for this, John Watson.”  
Culverton Smith took out a slim dagger. He slowly walked towards Sherlock, tapping the knife against his thigh.  
“Well, well. Sorry, Mr. Holmes, but apparently, you’re second on John Watson’s list. Shame, shame,” he murmured, inching closer and closer.  
As he approached him, Sherlock was cursing himself. He was so stupid to come here unprepared and vulnerable like this. And it was all because of that word. “Love.” “Love, John,” his text had said. His brain had been hijacked by hope, and now he was paying the price.   
Wasn’t it ironic that he was going to die for the very thing he would have killed for?

 

John wondered. Why did his life have to be so hard? Because of Sherlock. Sherlock and his games. And his enemies. And his one friend, who had let him down. John was helpless while they had Rosie. And Sherlock was helpless while they had John.  
John held Sherlock’s eye contact as Culverton Smith walked towards him. Sherlock’s eyes darted to his pocket, where John could make out the faint shape of a gun. He looked at the two women holding Rosie, making it clear what he was about to do.  
John shook his head. No. Don’t you do that, Sherlock Holmes. Don’t you--  
Sherlock whipped out his gun and fired two quick shots; striking both of the women near Rosie fatally to the head. Rosie screamed, ducking down in her chair.  
Sherlock pointed the gun at Culverton Smith. “Let John Watson go, or you’re next.”  
Smith laughed. “Okay, okay. But before me, you’re next.”  
Sherlock’s face twitched with confusion as John felt the men next to him release him. No, no, no..  
“SHERLOCK!”

 

Sherlock heard John scream his name, as two bullets pierced his torso. Unlike the time where Mary had shot him, and he had used his mind palace to stay alive, this time he wasn’t sure that he should be surviving. After all, John and Rosie were safe now. They were safe now.  
There was the sound of sirens and skidding tires behind him, and the store doors were thrown open. Heavy footsteps hurried into the store, as Sherlock’s legs gave out under him.  
“What the bloody hell--Sherlock!” Lestrade yelled. “Fire at the three armed hostiles!”  
Sherlock watched the bodies fall down around him. The two men near John were first, taking a police officer down with them. And then Culverton Smith collapsed before Sherlock, his maniacal grin plastered onto his face. Body count at 2… 4… 5… 6.   
And soon to be 7.  
John ran over to him while police officers went to untie Rosie.  
“No, Sherlock. Stay with me. Stay with me,” John muttered, ripping his scarf off and trying to slow down the blood flow.  
Sherlock laughed weakly. “You know I’m not going to make it. Two shots to the chest, one dangerously close to the heart and the other between the ribs--” Sherlock stopped to gasp in the pain, “right where Mary shot me the first time…”  
“Shut up, Sherlock. Sherlock. I’m here. I’m sorry. Mary’s death wasn’t your fault, I just couldn’t cope, and I blamed you, and I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” John whispered, with wet cheeks. Sherlock raised one of his numb arms and tried to wipe the tears from his friend’s face.   
“John?” he gasped.  
“No, Sherlock. Stop this. You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be--”  
“I love you,” Sherlock whispered. And let his eyes fall shut.


	10. Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Rosie deal in their separate ways.

John didn’t go to the funeral. He couldn’t face that. He just couldn’t.   
Of all the times that he had thought Sherlock was dead, this one had the worst sense of guilt attached to it.  
Leave it to Sherlock to drop a huge bombshell before he died. He had loved him. And Sherlock didn’t love anyone.  
John sat in his chair, where he had been for the past two days, and thought. Sherlock Holmes. In love with him.  
And dead.

 

Rosie peeked out at her father from around the corner of her room. She couldn’t see his face, just his posture. The same stiff, frozen posture. Like if he moved, then he would have to face reality. And reality just wasn’t faceable right now.  
Rosie had called three therapists and tried to get them to come to the house, but as soon as they sat down and started asking John questions, he just looked at them, and remained silent, until they left.  
He wasn’t going to work. Rosie was making her own meals and leaving him portions, but they often got cold before he touched them.  
One day, Rosie happened upon John reading his blog. He was reading the last entry, written by Sherlock himself. “The Sign of Three.” She was the three. But now she felt like one, carrying on all by herself.  
Rosie was dealing with her grief in her own way. She talked to people about it. Molly. Mrs. Hudson. Her father, even though he never responded.  
She had nightmares about it every night. Gunshots, seeing the bodies around her dropping like empty shells. And then her father’s scream of rage and defeat. They had to drag him away from Sherlock’s body, screaming. Rosie looked on, horrified and guilt-ridden. Sherlock had died because of her. It was all her fault.

 

It was all his fault. Sherlock had died because of him. John was too weak; he couldn’t lose another family member. So he sacrificed his only true friend. The friend that loved him.   
Sherlock  
Holmes  
Had  
Loved  
Him.  
And John let him die.

 

Rosie went to school, but her grades plummeted. She stopped talking to her friends, stopped eating, and didn’t care about her appearance anymore. She constantly visited Molly, her own sort of therapist. But even Molly was starting to get concerned with her.  
Today, when Rosie came home from school, there were voices inside of the house. It was Mrs. Hudson.  
“John Watson! Get yourself together! Do you think this is what Sherlock would have wanted? For you to go and get you and your daughter killed, because of him? I can tell you that it is most certainly not. Snap out of it,” she bellowed, and stormed by him. She caught sight of Rosie, and her face fell.  
“Oh, Rosie. I’m so sorry,” she said, hugging her tightly. Rosie responded weakly, but smiled and nodded as she had learned to. Smiling and nodding gave people the sense that she was okay, that she was doing alright.   
She wasn’t.

 

John went to work today. He blankly stared while his boss tried consoling him, telling him that she understood why he had to take a break, and they were glad to have him back. But he wasn’t back. He never would be. Not completely.  
Rosie needed him more than these people he was treating. But he didn’t know how to help her.  
Every time he thought of something to say to her, it would sound all wrong. Fake, and phony.   
“It will be alright.” No, it wouldn’t.  
“It’s okay, we’re alive. We’re okay.” No, they weren’t. They were barely alive.  
That day when John got back from work, Rosie was waiting for him inside the door. She ran to him, and she cried. And he cried. But they were together, holding on tightly to what they had left.  
John knew that she loved him. And he could love her back.

 

Rosie would be okay. She’d be okay enough for both of them. She just had to keep calm.

 

And try to carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks everyone, for making it this far! I know it was kind of a depressing (and maybe non-satisfying) ending, but I felt like it had to end this way, at least in this story.
> 
> (At least we can be happy that John apologized much sooner in the show, so it didn't take Sherlock's death to help him realize that Mary's death wasn't Sherlock's fault.)


End file.
